


A King's Skill

by brevitas



Series: King Among Kings [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:58:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras believes wholeheartedly he is to be married to a layabout drunk; Combeferre witnesses Grantaire and his friends sneaking back into the castle one late night and recognizes something deeper than his penchant for drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A King's Skill

When Enjolras walks into the main hall for breakfast with his head down and the high collar of his cloak shielding most of his face he is surprised to find only Abelard waits for him. He favors the king with a brief glance, nods as he takes his seat and sets his hands mildly in his lap.

Abelard is rosy-cheeked with rage, and he can remain silent for only so long. When he throws his goblet across the room Enjolras starts, and the wine paints a brilliant line of red across the far wall.

"My son," he begins, his voice shaking with anger, "Has decided to decline my invitation to breakfast."

Enjolras wisely remains silent and Abelard heaves the table back a few inches when he abruptly stands. His throne scrapes loudly on the stone floor but the guard posted at the door purposefully remains looking forward rather than responding to the screeching noise. Enjolras guesses from the staff's reactions that an eruption like this is somewhat common.

"I'm sorry he's embarrassing you," he says to Enjolras, shaking his head. "I'll have him come to lunch."

Mutely Enjolras nods, and Abelard turns to storm out of the hall. His personal guard follows him though the servers linger, and with a final look at Enjolras, begin taking the food and plates back into the kitchens. He does not stop them; he's curious about something he noticed amiss with Abelard's right hand, and wonders why his knuckles were split in such a brutal fashion.

+++++

"I don't want to tell him that," Bahorel complains, arms folded across his chest. "That excuse is worse than the truth."

"It is not." Grantaire fights to keep still, fidgeting on the table with his arms raised above his head. The castle doctor, Joly, kneels at his feet and scrutinizes his swollen knee while his assistant bandages the prince's ribs.

"Just tell him," Grantaire repeats, a little more forcefully this time. "And assure him I will be present for lunch."

Bahorel sighs but does as he is told, slipping out of the prince's chambers. He is unmolested as he walks through the halls; many of the staff like him, and those that do not know of his favor with Grantaire. Even his fellow guards who detest him for his higher position (and by the god do they misunderstand his responsibilities) resist the urge to poison him for they know Grantaire is a terrier, and he would not let the murder of his best friend go.

He walks to Enjolras' room and is surprised when he meets him in the halls on the way, a lanky armored redhead at his side. He glances at the ginger, frowns when he finds he doesn't recognize him, and belatedly notices he has a cigarette at one corner of his mouth. That, if nothing else, is what cinches him as a royal guard; they all have a tendency towards smoking, perhaps because rolling a cigarette is a good distraction from the long boring hours of night duty.

"My lord." He greets Enjolras with a polite bow and Enjolras smiles a little, patiently watches his shoes. Bahorel wonders why the boy never looks up, and ignores the redhead (who has taken to staring at him, his cigarette bobbing as he thoughtfully chews it).

"Prince Grantaire sent me with his apologies," he says, straightening. "He missed breakfast as he made the mistake of drinking too much the night before."

"It'll explain away the bruises," Grantaire had said earlier, stubborn as always. "And he'll believe it. I'm sure my lovely fiance will be quick to accept that I got so drunk I fell down the stairs."

Bahorel watches Enjolras closely and he sees it; Enjolras' hands tighten and then he slowly loosens them, smoothes his fingers down his thighs. Bahorel sighs and wishes he could be honest, knowing Grantaire would hate him for it.

"He has promised he'll be at lunch," he adds, but Enjolras is already turning away. The redhead walks after him, the plates of his armor whispering as they touch, and Bahorel watches them go with a frustratued frown.

+++++

"He got _drunk_ ," Enjolras says as he stalks into his room. Feuilly closes the door behind them and his stoic guard act quickly drops; he grins as he sits on the edge of his prince's bed, stretching his legs out across the floor. Enjolras snaps, "So drunk that he could not even make it to breakfast."

Combeferre sets his quill down and Courfeyrac, stretched out on the floor reading, abandons his book. Both stand and move to Enjolras' side, who has sat down gracelessly on a sofa. They can see his anger simmering just underneath his words, and know he is liable to burn if they accidentaly set him off.

"Did you see him?" Courfeyrac asks, resting a hand on Enjolras' knee.

Enjolras shakes his head, the harsh set of his jaw noticeable. "He sent his _guard_ to tell me," he replies. "Too coward to face me himself, I'm sure."

Combeferre frowns. "Perhaps it'll be different at lunch," he suggests.

Quiet for a moment, Enjolras suddenly lifts his head and says, "You're right." His blue eyes are fiery when he looks between his friends and clamps a hand on each of their knees. "Because you're coming to dine with me."

+++++

It is not common for attendants to eat with their lords, and more than likely never will be so when Enjolras walks into the main hall for lunch with Combeferre and Courfeyrac flanking him, even the staff look surprised.

King Abelard is missing and Grantaire is already seated in his usual chair, talking lowly with a guard and a pretty handmaiden. Immediately Enjolras wonders if he's sleeping with the latter and is frowning as he scoots his chair back and takes a seat.

Grantaire looks up at the noise and Enjolras' frown deepens when he realizes the prince is sporting a black eye and an ugly bruise across his swollen jaw. "Oh," he says, then chuckles as he rises. "I didn't notice your entrance, Prince Enjolras. I would have stood."

He's favoring his right leg, Enjolras notices, and hobbles as he approaches, slowing when he realizes Enjolras' attendants aren't moving. He flicks a glance towards Enjolras, apparently weighs the likelihood of this being a test, then asks, "Are they eating with us?" He turns towards his own, who are curiously watching him, waiting for their dismissal a few steps from the door. "Because I'm sure Bahorel and Jehan would appreciate some of the royal food too."

He laughs and executes a bow that Enjolras is honestly rather impressed with, considering the hindrance of his leg. He does not say anything charming to Enjolras as he rises because he believes wholeheartedly the foreign prince is empty-headed, and instead returns to his seat. Combeferre and Courfeyrac sit to either side of their prince and the two attendants Grantaire brought do the same (albeit a bit more warily).

The servers have just set the hot plates of potatoes and steak in front of them when Courfeyrac asks, "What happened to your leg?" He misinterprets the look Grantaire gives him and adds on tactlessly, "My lord."

"I, uh." He wets his bottom lip and exchanges a glance with his guard that Enjolras sees. "Fell down some stairs."

"Ah." Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow to Enjolras, who elbows him under the table in retaliation.

"I truly am sorry for missing breakfast," he says to Enjolras, using the side of his fork to slice his meat. He doesn't expect an answer and thus is surprised when he gets one, Enjolras politely replying, "It's fine."

He looks at him over the table and Enjolras steadily returns the stare this time, his eyes as blue as they had been upon Grantaire's first glimpse. It is Enjolras who breaks the silence and asks, "What happened to your father's knuckles?" Grantaire immediately confirms that the prince has a voice as lovely as his looks, and resents him all the more for it. He's like a piece of fine art; wonderful to look at but quite dreary in an intelligent conversation.

Bahorel carefully slices his meat but nudges Grantaire under the table, prompting him to speak. The staff has cleared the room and it is but the six of them, so Grantaire is not as creative as he might have been for a larger audience. "He got in an argument with a soldier," he says idly, dropping his gaze to his plate. "It apparently became somewhat physical."

Enjolras does not require a translation to understand what has been said--he'd already seen King Abelard, and he sported not a single wound on his person. It hadn't been a fight; it had been a beating. He considers asking Grantaire if the bruises he wears are from his father but decides not to as Grantaire did not volunteer the information, and he would be resented if Enjolras asked now.

For the remainder of the meal there is little conversation between the princes, though Jehan and Courfeyrac make fast friends and Enjolras realizes the blonde he first mistook as a woman is indeed an absolutely beautiful man (though this does little to ease his doubts over Grantaire's fidelty). When they clear their plates they each go their separate ways; no one mentions the mysterious wounds again, and Grantaire appreciates their silence.

+++++

"You cannot go," Bahorel says flatly, and he rests a hand on the butt of his sword. "You're too badly hurt."

"I'm barely hurt at all," Grantaire bites back, pushing his dark hair out of his face and checking his clothes in the mirror. He wears a form-fitting black outfit that makes him look sleek and refined, and can find no fault with it. "Joly even said so."

Bahorel groans. "Joly panders to your idealistic beliefs," he points out, earning himself a laugh from Grantaire. "And he likes you, so I don't see why he would tell you not to go."

Grantaire tucks his pantlegs into tall black boots and straightens with an affectionate smile. "Bahorel," he says calmly, "You can either come with me or you can let me go myself. Either way I'm going."

After that there isn't much to say, and Bahorel ends up accompanying Grantaire out of the castle. He can't walk correctly yet so he brings Jehan too, if only to make it easier, and leans on him in the dark. Jehan asked once what they were doing and accepted Grantaire's tart, "Going to town," as a plausible answer, as he did not ask again.

They spend most of the night there, helping those that Grantaire promised weeks ago he would, and he listens to the townsfolk gossip about the young man that visited them the evening before. "Absolutely lovely man," the laundress says as Grantaire kneels beside her and helps her craft the caustic lye soap necessary in her trade. "Had two boys with him that were rather pretty too. One scholarly type and one curly-haired trickster."

Grantaire's eyebrow arches higher the more he hears of these men but he's not stupid and he knows they can only be one trio; the group he met today, Enjolras and his two assistants ("Combeferre and Courfeyrac," Jehan volunteers from the corner).

He can't fathom why they would sneak out of the castle just to see a village and he decides not to mention his knowledge of their excursions to them until he has further reason to question their motives. He finishes up his work with the farmers, swears to a young woman running her family's stead in her father's absence that he will have the barley seeds to her quick as can be, and begins the long hike home.

From Enjolras' room Combeferre watches the three lean shadows emerge from the trees and identifies them indepdently; Bahorel for the way he carries himself, proud but graceful as a fighter must be, Jehan for the way he shakes his hair back when he bends to tie his shoe and the gold locks catch the moonlight and Grantaire by his telltale limp and sluggish pace.

"Enjolras," he says, and the prince looks up from his studies. "I believe Grantaire and his guard and attendant sneaked out and are now coming back in."

Enjolras sighs, looking down once more. "No doubt to get drunk," he remarks, and Courfeyrac hums his agreement from where he's watching Feuilly paint. "I will probably miss him again at breakfast."

Combeferre doesn't know why but he doesn't think that's the case; as Grantaire eases open the great front doors he realizes the man isn't walking like he's drunk, only like he's hurt. He frowns as they disappear beneath his sill and says, "He hadn't been drinking."

"Perhaps he bought it then," Courfeyrac says, one knee drawn to his chest. "And brought his friends to aid him in carrying it home."

"No doubt," Enjolras says, though Combeferre knows that they're wrong. He remembers the looks the villagers gave one another whenever they spoke of their prince, and the secrets hidden in their smiles. There is something they're overlooking, something important, and it's because Grantaire plays a layabout drunk so well. Combeferre wonders, but until he can find proof he says nothing to his friends and lets it go.

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello lovelies! so nice to be home and updating things regularly again, my gosh C:
> 
> I got the chance to update this thanks to a lovely anonymous on tumblr, smallestgeek, and R from A03. thank you to these three, as I particularly love this verse and really enjoy writing it!
> 
> not many notes for this update apart from its rather boring -- but have no fear, very exciting things are planned for the next one ;)
> 
> oh oh! I know tobacco and cigarettes weren't around in the medieval period but I'm a sucker for a cute guy smoking so indulge me this one time
> 
> also the title comes from this quote: "Courtiers don't take wagers against the king's skill. There is the deadly danger of winning" by Isaac Asimov
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest, please take a minute to submit a request via ask for me to update something and know that each one encourages me to go faster ;) anon or not, I don't care, and I look forward to seeing you there!
> 
> p.s. sorry about the rhymes or any general silliness in these notes, my sleeping schedule is a bit off and it's nipping me in the ass now


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